AUNTIE DRU by Fojiao2

by Babyverse Krewe

AU--Pride & Scourge. As Connor grew up in the Hyperion and at school, Drusilla has had an effect upon his life. These are small peeks at various important discussions between Connor and his Auntie Dru.

2. Age Fourteen

AUNTIE DRU

by Fojiao2 (Kevin A. Poston) and Ebony Silvers

A tale about Connor from the Babyverse

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters used here belong to me; most of them belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy; Baby, The Pride, Jean Claude, René, and Claudia belong to Ebony Silvers. I profit from none of this.

RATING: R

SPOILERS: "Highway to Hell," "Slept So Long Without You," "Bed of Roses."

DEDICATION: For Ebony, who encouraged me in the writing of this.

AGE FOURTEEN

          Just in time for his fourteenth birthday, Connor's family came home from space. He knew that wasn't literally true, that they'd been hopping dimensions and fighting demons, and for his benefit, too. But it made him more comfortable to think of them in outer space, jumping from world to world, and always looking back to the steadily-shrinking light of Sol burning in the blackness. He was much better at Astronomy, Chemistry, and Biology than at the more theoretical studies of Physics, Mathematics, and Philosophy. Just thinking about the implications of sliding into another dimension—of going to a place where another Connor was already twice the age he was now, with wild hair, bloody hands, and war paint—disturbed him.

          The family planned a wonderful birthday party, but then his birthday parties always were lavish. It was one of the few times that his doting father could be truly extravagant without Cordy's disapproving frown. Somehow they'd come back from a side-dimension without the reality-murderer, the demon that had been their target, but with a heavy case full of gold doubloons. Spike's comment—"They won't be needing it, lad,"—was all the explanation he was given about that. So not only was next year's tuition and the first three years of Notre Dame squared away, but they could afford to go really wild with decorations and treats for the party.

          It was a bash unlike any that Connor had ever attended, with all the adults a lot freer about their opinions and a lot drunker than he'd ever seen them. He felt very grown up walking around the full lobby, vampires, humans, and demons standing and talking with drinks in their hands, while the pop-funk band Stone Monkey jammed in the corner. Connor stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered around, seeing what he could see.

          By the office, Faith was lying on her side on the check-in counter, a margarita in the hand she wasn't propped on, smiling into the face of a very handsome vampire—one of Claudia's childer from Vicksburg, whose name Connor didn't know. She was surrounded by interested men, women, and vampires, all hungry for a taste of the Slayer's incredible body. And more than a few might get that taste. Faith had been a hilarious authority figure for Connor while his family was away. She was everything Charles Gunn wasn't: funny, wild, conveniently forgetful, and best of all, open to bribes. Not that he'd had all that much to bribe her about, just a few missed curfews. But he couldn't help it if he was drawn to the night and the excitement around L.A. after dark—it was in his nature.

          But Connor appreciated the stern authority of Charles and Fred Gunn just as much. They were a steady anchor in the maelstrom that was his life. He looked over the lobby and found them, sitting next to Angel and Cordelia, naturally. Charles was on a bench, dressed in comfortable clothes, while Fred sat behind him and draped her arms over her husband's shoulders, leaning against him and talking animatedly to Angel. Connor wished that he could have seen the Gunns when he was a baby, before they were an old married couple. He'd heard stories of Charles back then, of the wild boy from the streets who turned against everything he knew to side with a vampire, and in so doing found the love of his life. That was not the man Connor knew; the boy was familiar with a battle-scarred veteran, the no-nonsense administrator and fighter who kept the business running well while Wes and Dru were off to New Orleans, or Angel and Cordy were off to other dimensions. He was told that Charles had not trusted Angel much in those early days; again, it was hard to believe, since he'd seen more than once how Charles unhesitantly put his life in Angel's hands. But then, everything had changed in the intervening years. Connor had even heard stories about how Wes and Charles had competed for Fred's hand, an image that set him laughing every time he considered it. The blade-wielding, gleeful killer they all knew and loved paired off with the Texas girl? Hilarious!

          Angel felt himself being watched and looked up to catch his son's eyes. He called the boy over, and Connor dutifully crossed the room to accept a hug from his dad. "You're just getting so big!" Angel observed, messing up the boy's hair. "I swear you must have grown two inches while we were gone."

          Connor rolled his eyes. "No, Dad, nothing much changed."

          "And how's the wound?"

          Connor frowned. "The one Ma checked the minute you guys got back? It's not a wound anymore, it's just a scar."

          "You don't want to show it?" Angel asked. "It's a mark of battle."

          Charles put out a hand. "Angel—"

          "Dad," Connor said, his voice shaking, "it's nothing more than a sign that I was lucky. And that Joseph took the shot that was meant for me." He and Charles had wrestled with this particular demon for weeks, but Angel was still new to his son's feelings about Joseph's sacrifice. René's childe had been a marvel with a sword, and the first to leap into battle against the demon, even over his sire's protest. And he'd paid the ultimate price.

          "But— But that's not how it was at all," Angel protested. "Any of us would have taken that stake for you, son." Connor's eyes grew wide with horror. "I mean to say, we were all in that battle together. It wasn't your fault that Joseph died."

          "AND," Charles said, leaning forward and putting a hand on Connor's shoulder, "you shouldn't feel guilty that you lived. I've told you this. We're warriors here, and we expect to die in any fight we're in. But you're still innocent, Con; back then you definitely weren't ready to fight that thing."

          "He's right," Angel said. "We chased it over seven dimensions, Connor, and the closest we came was being in the same city. It's smart, powerful, and too dangerous for any of us to handle alone. You have nothing to feel guilty about."

          The young man sighed heavily, fists clenched, expression determined. "But I should be ready. It's my destiny."

          "Oh, honey." Cordy was instantly off her seat and hugging Connor to her, stroking his hair and speaking to him softly. "You need to appreciate it while you're still innocent. You'll be drawn into fighting all too soon, believe me, and then you'll be hungry for a bit of quiet."

          Connor pulled away from her, looking from her to Angel and absorbing their concerned expressions. "Thanks. Um, I'm gonna look around the party a bit more. I still haven't seen everybody."

          Cordy gave him a searching look, her arm still around his shoulders. "You sure you're okay?"

          "As okay as I can get," he replied, and then he was lost in the crowd, moving away at vampire-speed. Cordelia sat down heavily behind Angel and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head on his broad shoulder. Her little boy was growing up far too quickly to suit her, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. For the first time, she was hit with the reality that her boy actually would take up the fight against evil. Watching him spar with Spike was one thing; and teaching him about demons was just common sense considering life around the Hyperion. They could talk seriously about his graduating at 16 and going to Notre Dame early, but the truth was that he'd be very lucky if he completed even one year at college. Forces were gathering, and his destiny as a leader in combating apocalypse was becoming clearer. She held Angel tighter, using him as a barrier against a world too harsh for her, as always.

          Meanwhile, Connor was moving around the crowded lobby looking for anything that would make him look and feel more grown-up. Wasn't there anyone there younger than himself?! Couldn't Dawn Summers have brought her toddler? The person he really wanted to find was Uncle Spike. Spike would slip him liquor, cigarettes, money—whatever he might need to play the rebel for the evening. Maybe he'd have better luck out in the courtyard.

          On his way out to the equally-crowded courtyard he bumped into some guy leaning against the door, looking up at the stars. "Oh, sorry—" Connor began, then caught the man's teal-blue eyes looking down at him in confusion. His smile broadened: "Hey René! It's good to see you!"

          The vampire finally seemed to have recognized Connor. "Heeyyy," he said slowly, "Angel fils.  You a big boy now, heh?"

          "You know it," Connor answered, eyeing the beer in René's hand. "Uh, think I could have some of your beer?"

          René seemed to have just noticed the bottle in his hand. He was obviously a lot more drunk than he appeared, but at least he was still upright. The Master of Mobile looked at his nearly-full beer thoughtfully and said, "Angel, he be pissed I give you this."

          "Yeah, I guess so," Connor said, lowering his gaze to the floor in disappointment. Had that even been a question?

          René thrust it forward. "Go crazy, kid," he said before wandering off, chuckling at the chance to frustrate Angel in any way.

          Connor clutched his new treasure, then leapt forward to land one-footed on the stone rim of the fountain in the courtyard, took a second to eye his next goal, and leapt up to stand on the third-floor roof of the patio. The young man didn't get the chance to display his abilities much, but everyone at the party knew that he was more than just human, so he could be himself. He was now alone and looking down on the crowd in the courtyard, safe from prying eyes. Only those on the hotel's roof had a better view of the moon.

He tilted his head back and poured the cool beer down his throat. Hmm, strange. He could taste the wheat for some reason, taste the hops and the other chemicals that went into its being. And the alcohol, naturally. But it was smoother than he expected, not the sharp slap of alcohol that he'd gotten from experiments with vodka and Jim Beam. He looked over the roof's edge and considered jumping down immediately to finagle himself another beer.

          But a sound caught his interest, something that he wouldn't have heard at all if not for his special abilities. It was a cry, and his instincts naturally turned him in its direction, seeing if he could help. The cry came from a third-floor window of the North Wing, in line with the roof where he stood. When he focused on it the sounds from behind the glass came a lot more clearly.

          The cry was now a word: "Please." And it was without a doubt Drusilla—no other accent, even Spike's, was as strong. She was definitely crying out the word, but . . . was she moaning as well? What was going on? "Please," she yelped again, and Connor stepped toward the window.

          "My dear," said a man's voice in the room with her: Uncle Wes. "I have no idea what you want. Be precise in your language or you'll get no service from me."

          "Wesley," Dru moaned. "The roooopes! They're so tight!"

          "As well they should be," Wes responded. "You need restraint, my darling, and I'm just the man to give you what you need."

          "Oh, I do need it, Wesley." Her voice was plaintive, pleading. "Please give me more. Don't be angry with Princess, my Wesley."

          Connor heard Wes move toward her, and heard that all-too-familiar sound that he'd often been told to ignore: a hand doing a long, long slide against bare skin without a break, obviously too much skin for the recipient to have clothes on. He heard the gentle kiss Wes gave to his wife. "I'm not angry with you, my love. You know that. But you need to be more specific in your requests. Tell me what you want, Drusilla, my darling."

          "I need you. I need you inside me, lover."

          Connor heard Wes sigh heavily and then step across the room. "I don't think you're ready yet."

Drusilla's reaction was immediate: ropes were pulled, limits were tested, and powerful feet slammed into the floor. Likewise, she growled and gnashed her fangs, threatening reprisals in the emotional language of vampires, a language Connor spoke. He couldn't see it, but he was sure that Wesley was shaking his head at her display: he'd seen the same thing happen again and again over the years.

          Connor now knew that whatever was going on in that room was completely private, and even if it wasn't—if Spike was sitting on the bed watching the scene and just not making noise—then nothing there was meant for 14-year-old ears. Two days before he'd been 13. Would he make better choices at 16? At 18? He only knew that he had this moment, that the whole area of sex interested him immensely. And that with the family he'd been given, he'd be able to see a wide range of sexual activity before long. He'd experiment, like he did with alcohol, and see what suited. So in a sense, listening to this might be a way of exploring his self, of finding his own likes or dislikes.

          In the end, he'd tell himself whatever he needed to. He wanted to listen, and that was that. Connor moved carefully across the tar-paper-and-gravel roof, knowing that the ears in that room were as sensitive as his own. It was much like the prowling after prey that Uncle Spike taught him. He made his breathing as shallow as possible, cursing the fact that he needed to breathe, knowing it might give away his presence outside the window. Still, he moved closer.

          Things had gotten quiet in the room. Finally, Wesley said, "Are you done?"

          "Please let me go, my Wesley."

          "You don't want to be free," he told her. "You want what only I can give you."

          Connor could hear the smile in her voice. "Yesssss," Dru said. "I want what you give me, Wesley my Wesley.  Give it to me!"

Wesley sighed deeply once more. "My love," he said, "That wasn't nice. You tried to nip me. And you shouted at me. You know I don't like it when you raise your voice to me. That was very naughty. Do I need to punish you?"

"Yes."  Her voice was layered in honey, sweet and thick.  "Punish me, my sweet flower.  Hurt me.  I was very bad.  I have no control.  I need to learn control…"

          Wesley's voice moved away from her, across the room. "My love," he said, "I have seen you stop time and make it dance on a pin. Your natural state of being is two steps ahead of everyone around you. It is impossible that you lost control.  You wanted blood, you wanted it quickly, and you couldn't wait to take it from me when I said you could."

          "Don't walk away!  Please come back. Touch me."  She shrieked in frustration.  "If you won't I'll have to find someone who will!  I need it so much."

          Wesley's response was something involving the ropes—probably tightening them, Connor thought, judging by the hiss of pain Drusilla let out. "Yes! Oh yes, Wesley. Just like that. Oh thank you, Wesley. I knew you would do that. I always know what you'll do, my toy."

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of Wesley pacing around the room. "I see through your ploys and plots, my love," he said. "I'm not Spike. I won't fall for the cheap tricks that you used on him. I'm not here for a century plus of fun just to then stand by and watch you frolic with Angelus." Connor heard Wesley's quick stomp across the room and the sharp slap that he delivered to Drusilla. "I'm not a toy. You're mine, princess. Just as I am yours. That means forever. I would kill you, me, and any demon that got between us. You are mine."

          "Ooh, such pretty words," Drusilla cooed. "I'm yours. Always." There was the sound of a kiss. "But come, pet, Mommy's tired of arguing. I just wanted to hold you to me. I promise to be good. It won't happen again. Please. I want to continue our game. Please, play the game."

          "Very well. I asked for direction earlier and you've never given it. All you've done is try to manipulate me. Now: Tell. Me. What. You. Want!"

          There was the tiniest pause before Drusilla whispered, "Hurt me. Hurt me, my love. Give me pain. I want you to give me lovely pain that leaps like fish through my limbs. I want juicy, crunchy pain that catches in my throat. I want you to make me scream, my sweet."

          Silence followed for a few seconds, then Connor heard the distinct sound that defined Wesley for him: that particular switchblade opening in Wes's hand. The boy then heard him walk slowly over to his bound wife. "Very well; all is forgiven, but this game is of high stakes, my beauty. Like every other day between us. I can give you what you want. You know that. No one can give you more. I can give you pain even Angelus and Spike never dreamed of."

          "If only you meant it," she hissed at him. "If only you dared."

          "Oh, I dare!" Then the unmistakable sound of a blade cutting flesh, quick slices.

          Drusilla chuckled, the sound making Connor shudder. "You missed the artery, my love," she said.

          "I know," Wes replied. "I'm attacking the pain centers, not your circulation."

          "But I don't feel—" Dru began, then there was another quick slice. "Oh! Oh yes!  Oh Wesley!!" There was another slice and Dru gasped. "Oh yes. More! I need more. Oh, it hurts, Wesley. Make it hurt more!" The sound of another cut caused Connor to swallow hard. "Wesley. The pain! It's the color of flaming coral. It flows through me. It tastes like lemons and honey!" She growled. "More! I need mo…Oh! Wesley! Wesley!!!!" All the ropes tensed, shrieking at the pressure applied to them, and Dru's voice keened into ultrahigh pitches. It lasted an amazingly long time—Connor didn't understand why every vampire in the hotel wasn't on their way to this room. Then he remembered the soundproofing that was put into some of the North Wing rooms, and that he was hearing only what leaked through the window.

          Finally, Dru seemed to relax: at least she was panting and no longer screaming, and it sounded as if she were swinging on the ropes, allowing them to support her, rather than pulling on them. Connor heard Wes say quietly: "My knowledge of shakras and chi flow have several uses, dear heart. You never had cause to test them until now. We've never gone so far before, my dulcet darling."

          Drusilla's voice was half-whisper, half-moan. "My Wesley, my dearest love. I had to know. You had to push me."

          There were tears in Uncle Wesley's voice. "Had to know what? My love for you? You had only to look in my mind, precious; it would have told you everything."

          "No," she moaned. "That would tell me how you felt. I had to know what you would do. Had to know you'd act on that love.  Had to see how far you'd go. Needed to feel what you'd do to make me better, to make us better."

          Connor heard the ropes being sliced by Wes' switchblade, heard Drusilla's limbs hit the floor and heard Wes shift her body onto his, heard his hands brushing over her wounds, heard him kiss what cuts he could. "Never doubt me for a moment, darling," he said. "I will always be here for you. I'll always be here and willing to give you what you need, what you want."

          "Not your fault, dear Wesley," she whispered. "Too many lovely men. Not enough love. Only Daddy ever pushed me, but he didn't love me. Spike loved me but he wouldn't push me.  He didn't love me enough."

          "I do, my lovely girl," Wes breathed. "I'll be with you until the stars burn out, I swear. This year, on my birthday: I'll have Baby turn me. I'll join you in the dark garden, my sweet. We'll be together in eternal night, love." Then the sound of kissing.

          Dru was the first to break away. "I am sorry I ever doubted you, darling.  No man has ever been stronger than you, my love.  No love has ever been stronger."

          "Rest your mind about it, dove," Wesley replied. "I would do whatever I can to strengthen our love." More kissing, Connor listening closely. "Are you recovered? Can you stand yet?"

          Drusilla chuckled once more, this time with complete mirth. "I have never been hurt more, sweet Wesley," she said. "It was delicious. And no, I cannot stand. Help me to the bed?  Then we can finish what we've started. I still want you inside me."

          Wesley laughed, deep and low.

          "Hear anything interesting?" came a familiar voice behind Connor. The young man leapt like a cattle prod had been laid against his back. His senses were so tuned to hear the slightest whisper from Wes and Dru's room that the question, though said in a normal tone of voice, seemed to be shouted at him. Connor landed in a defensive stance, ready to face any attack, but he realized that he recognized the man who'd spoken: Jean Claude, chief childe of Spike's Pride.

          He was definitely not "Uncle" Jean. Though the first of Spike's childer, he was almost a stranger to Connor. The boy had seen him more when he was younger, but as Spike's empire in New Orleans had grown, Jean's opportunities to visit L.A. had shrunk. Though he'd last seen Jean when the vampire had fought to save his own young life, just before the Scourge began dimension-hopping, he couldn't remember the taciturn Cajun saying anything. Connor had no idea what to expect, didn't know how much the old man had heard. He just knew that he was in trouble.

          "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Jean growled, stepping forward.

          Connor had grown up in this hotel: he didn't need to look to know how far above him the roof was. He smirked at the approaching figure and said, "Catch me." He was instantly up in the air, already spinning around so he could grab a window ledge and vault himself onto the roof, moving at vampire speed the entire time.

          Only Angel knew the hotel's roof better than Connor. The boy slipped into shadows and then vaulted to the upper roof, leaping three stories without difficulty. Unfortunately, he could feel the older vampire right behind him, not having needed to take an intermediary step. Connor kept moving forward, though, never looking back, knowing that his senses would let him feel exactly where the vampire was behind him. Obviously he wasn't going to lose Jean on the roof. Maybe on one of the streets surrounding the hotel? Jean didn't know L.A. like Connor did—at least, that's what Connor was praying. He made a sharp right turn, heading for the hotel's front. He felt that he had just avoided Jean's grabbing hand, which was closer than he had sensed. He leapt from the South Wing roof to the East Wing roof, then threw himself off that toward the sidewalk waiting below.

          He wasn't nearly as strong as he was going to be. He landed hard, but without damage, and was disoriented. His breath was knocked out of him and the muscles in his legs were screaming in pain. Connor knew that he had disturbed two vampires who were sprawled along the front steps of the hotel, the male on top and the female below him. They were growling at the interruption. This was all his senses told him, though, so he swayed on his feet and stared at them, a hand held to his head to steady his blurred vision.

          "Oi! Connor! What are you doing here, brat?" he heard. The voice held more confusion than anger. His head cleared as Connor realized that it was Spike and Baby who were wrapped around each other on the front steps.

          "Uncle Spike?"

          Suddenly Jean Claude landed on the sidewalk next to him, his strong right hand landing on Connor's shoulder with an almost equal weight and power. Connor looked up into the Cajun's scowling face, then back to Uncle Spike and Aunt Baby.

          Things were much clearer now. He could clearly see Spike's pale back turned to him, pants halfway down his ass, his uncle twisting his head around to look at the boy he'd helped raise. And pressed against him was Baby, equally shirtless, looking younger than he'd ever seen her because of her newly-won vampire status, and wearing what could have been a thong. Connor couldn't see that too clearly since Spike was doing what he could to hide his wife's attributes from the young man's eyes. Baby was staring at him wide-eyed, bringing her hands from around Spike's neck to also attempt to cover herself.

          "Jean!" Spike said. "Can your get your mother's shirt for us? It's over on that car." Connor looked to his right, and sure enough, on one of the cars parked against the curb both Spike's and Baby's shirts were thrown against the trunk, as well as a pair of tight black pants that could only be Baby's.

          But Jean clearly didn't want to let go of Connor now that he had his hands on the boy. He hesitated, then said, "Papa, this boy—"

          "Dammit!" Spike said, his voice not half so charitable as before. "Since when do I have to give orders twice around here?! Get the shirt, Jean. Now."

          That cleared up Jean Claude's hesitancy. He shifted his hand so that he held firmly onto Connor's forearm and dragged the young man with him to the car. Connor was a bit more aware now, though, and didn't make it easy for Jean, dragging his heels and giving the man dirty looks. When Jean snatched up the shirt, Connor decided to make another bid for escape, hoping his words could do what his physical attempt at escape hadn't. He started to jerk at Jean's hand, saying, "Let me goooo. Let me goooo, you're not my dad, let me goooo." He put a fair amount of whine into it, knowing how it would affect Uncle Spike.

          And Spike delivered. "Let him go," Spike ordered as he was handed the shirt. He passed it to Baby and kept his back to the other two, blocking their views of her. Jean let go of Connor's arm, but he spun around to give Baby some privacy and turned Connor to do the same, keeping his hand on Connor's shoulder. The young man, of course, kept twisting his head around, trying to see what he could.

          In just a few seconds Spike said, "Okay," and both Jean and Connor turned around to see the couple standing, arms around each other. Spike's pants were fastened and around his waist, and Baby's shirt came down to mid-thigh, so they were both securely covered. "So what's happening here, Jean?" Spike asked.

          "The boy—" Jean began.

          "It was nothing!" Connor bawled. "I just had—"

          "A beer," Spike said. "I can smell it on your breath from here."

          As Connor well knew he could. "Okay, okay, so I snuck a beer. C'mon, Uncle Spike, let me get back to the party." He knew that, if he admitted to this one crime, he just might be able to sneak away before Jean filled them in on his other bit of business. And who knew, it might be too embarrassing for Jean to admit, since he'd have to have listened to the activities in that bedroom also. He just might not mention it. Connor wished he knew Jean better, so he could manipulate the man.

          "There's more," Jean Claude said. Spike raised an eyebrow.

          Connor shot the Cajun a hateful look. "Naah. C'mon, Uncle Spike, I haven't seen my dad in more than a month. Can't I go tell him how much I love him?"

          Baby hid her smile. Spike shook his head, tsking. "Cor, I thought I taught you to play poker better than that," he said. "Just overplayed your hand, lad. What was he up to, Jean?"

          "Um. Well." Jean found that, when it came to actually saying it, it was fairly embarrassing. Like tattling on a schoolmate. But as a father himself, he knew that he'd want to know. "He was listening. To Wesley and Drusilla. In their room."

          Spike looked confused. "In their room? What—?"

          "Listening to what they were doing. In their room."

          Connor suddenly found the pavement at his feet very interesting: he couldn't look up, not to save his life. He heard Baby give a hiccup of laughter and then cover it with her mouth. "Well. Hmm," Spike said, a smile obvious in his voice. "Uh, you know that's not right, don't you, Connor?"

          The teen nodded sulkily.

          "And you know that they weren't trying to hurt each other, they—"

          Jean cleared his throat.

          "Yes, Jean?"

          "Uh, forgive me, Papa. But this wasn't just anyone. It was Wes and Dru."

          "Ouch," Baby said. "He's right. They do run the whips and chains concession for the hotel. 'Hurt' was probably the main entrée. That's a lot to take in."

          "Look!" Connor said, his head whipping up. "I know—" Actually looking into the eyes of his beloved aunt and uncle was a bit much. Connor swallowed what felt like a billiard ball and then found his voice again. "I know that they weren't doing what you'd call 'normal.' But— But what do you call normal around here? Orgies in the pool and Slayers in bustiers? Nobody explained consort marks to me until last year, and then only because I thought that not having a scar on my neck meant I wasn't really part of the family. And then I had to be told why Uncle Wes' neck scars are different! So how will I learn anything if I have to wait for your explanations? There's nothing 'normal' around here, nothing. I mean, these are the front steps, and you two were just about— you were just about to . . ."  He found that he couldn't finish his statement.

          Jean now looked down on the boy without his judgmental strictness. He wondered how he would have handled the highly sexed atmosphere of the Scourge when he was fourteen.

          Spike and Baby were also looking at their nephew as if they'd suddenly taken on a weight of years in the last few seconds. He really was growing up right before their eyes, which meant that soon enough he'd be out in the world risking his life. Just the thought of losing him someday made them shiver. Both vampires promised themselves that they'd spend more time with Connor now that they were back home.

          "Oh, Connor, honey," Baby said. "I don't even know where to start. All of this—"

          Spike put up a hand. "All of this," he said, "will be better addressed by your mom and dad, Connor. We'll talk to Angel—I think we'll ALL have a big talk with him—and then he and your ma can talk to you tomorrow night. For tonight—why don't you go to your room?"

          Connor opened his mouth to protest, but Spike said, "No arguments. I think you've had enough excitement for tonight."

          Connor balled his hands into fists and stood his ground. "I'm not a baby," he said. "And you're not my dad. If HE tells me to go to my room I will."

          "Then go to your room," said Angel, stepping out of the shadows that cloaked the front door. Baby had sensed her sire behind her, but Spike and Jean were surprised to see him there, and Connor was gobsmacked, his mouth hanging open. This one moment had more honesty than he'd shared with his father in years, and it frightened Connor to his core. He nodded and slipped past his father's black-clothed form to get inside.

          "How'd you know he was here?" Spike asked.

          "You ever try to listen in on Drusilla without her knowing you're there?" Angel asked. "Can't be done. She sent down a message that I should get out here. At first I thought I'd just catch the show—" He looked right at Baby as he said this, and she found she couldn't meet his eyes—"But then Connor dropped down."

          "That's a situation you have to handle toute suite," Spike said, finger pointing at his grandsire.

          "Yeah, but I'm like Baby: where do I start?"

          "With love," came Jean Claude's voice, making them all look to him. "Your first words and your last words to him should be love. Because that's why we do what we do, n'est-ce pas?"

          With a big smile, Baby disengaged from Spike and went to hug her dear child. "Yes," she whispered to him, then turned to Spike and Angel with her arm around Jean's shoulder. "We're all here because of love. And that's what he has to know."

          In his room in the North Wing, Connor tried to read, but soon found it impossible. Tim Powers books usually drew him away from himself and into a different world, but not this night. His real library was in his dorm room, but he kept a few select books here in his room at the Hyperion. He looked them over, seeing if there was anything that might inspire or distract him. His gaze wandered across the autographed hardback copy of Dune that Baby had given him. This in turn made him think of Baby, and then of Baby on the front steps wearing just a thong, and then—

          So reading wasn't helping to remove all these thoughts of sex. What else was there? He hit upon the brilliant idea of going to sleep early, so that he'd be asleep when the party broke up after midnight. That way he very well might miss the nightly show that his ears sensed. He was asleep before midnight, but he'd forgotten that the hotel would be completely full this night with celebrating vampires and minions from L.A. and New Orleans, and whomever else they might pull in. Around 3 A.M. the noise was too much, forcing him awake.

          It was unfair that so few rooms in this hotel had soundproofing panels. Grunts and groans and moans and roars; beds squeaking, or shower doors rhythmically shaking; the familiar rip of clothes being torn apart and the breathy, hurried laughter that accompanied it; all of this was quite evident to Connor's vampiric-level hearing ability. And it was torture, every bit of it. He couldn't help but imagine the smooth bodies sliding against each other, making those wet, succulent sounds. Thank God he lived at school and didn't have to suffer through this all the time. But still, the holidays were a nightmare for him, and the pressure was doubled because he had to work overtime to make sure that Cordy didn't pick up on his feelings. She was naturally empathic and very good at recognizing things most people hid away—but Connor was sure that he would just drop dead if Cordy tried to talk to him about how everything he saw or did was now about sex.

          Cordy was Ma, had always been Ma. But one really evil voice in the back of his head told him that, no, she wasn't really his mother. Everybody knew that his real mother was dead, that Cordy's closest relation to him was actually just as his father's consort. And thus, continued that voice, what was the harm? What was the harm in taking a lingering look at those perfect breasts, at that tight tight ass as it walked past him, or considering some preciously-treasured memories of seeing her tanned midriff during a volleyball game last summer? Or the way she moved, and grunted as she hit the ball, and her mouth hung open in anticipation, and he wanted to, he wanted to—

          But no, there was no way that idea was happening anywhere outside of his head. And it was bad that it was there in the first place. But there was worse. There was a cavalcade of women who danced before his imagination when he allowed himself to consider them.

          Baby was the most obvious candidate. God, the revealing clothes she wore, the heavy, smoldering looks she gave to Spike whenever he was in the room (and the looks she gave Angel when she thought no one was looking), the way her hands roamed under her husband's clothes at every opportunity: everything she did screamed "lust." Spike and Baby had been careful to hide everything from him when he was younger, but since he'd turned thirteen he'd noticed that Baby's attentions were getting a lot bolder while he was still in the room—at exactly the time he would have appreciated more modesty from them they were cutting loose! The incident on the front steps was only the latest example. With her cursing, hard-drinking attitude, she was every teenage boy's fantasy of the dirty woman who'd introduce him to the roller coaster of sex if he gave her the slightest nod. She was in an almost-constant state of arousal when she was near Spike; Connor's senses told him that plainly enough. This fact alone brought all sorts of scenarios to mind: having Spike watch his first time would be embarrassing, but it just might be worth it if he could have Baby for a night. Especially now that she was a vampire. When he considered all the opportunities he'd missed, all the things he'd walked in on by mistake when he was younger and disgusted by seeing them all naked—oh, that perfect, special memory he kept like a jewel in a case, just two years before, when he caught the Scourge, all six of them, frolicking naked in the pool. He had to rush off to be alone whenever he thought about it, replaying it in slow motion through his head, seeing Baby's breasts bounce across Spike's face, watching his father playfully spank Cordy's bare ass, glimpsing Drusilla floating on her back with her eyes closed and wearing nothing but a secretive smile while Wes ran his tongue across her tight abs. But of course, there were other women to consider.

          Fred wore tops that were far too revealing—and did she EVER wear a bra? Not in his memory. And the way Uncle Charles would sometimes grab her ass when she walked by, and they'd both chuckle at each other—he wanted to do something that possessive with a woman, wanted her to know that she was his.

          Faith. What more was there to say? To contemplate her name was to see the cool, strong sensuality of the woman. Every move she made was pure sex; every look she gave from under those tousled brunette locks could be interpreted as an invitation. Throw in the bustiers and hip-hugging jeans that were her usual dress, and she was a walking advertisement for Slayer Sex. Not that Connor thought he had a chance in Hell with her—in the weeks that the Scourge was gone she'd made it very clear that he was still a little boy in her eyes. But Connor imagined himself in the place of the men she'd bring home constantly, seeing himself grown and powerful, the rich scion of the Master of Los Angeles leaning against a bar, just waiting for Faith to walk up to him, to trace a finger over his chest while he looked down into her eyes, to hear her whisper wonderful, filthy things into his ear. Oh, Faith. Sometimes just saying her name was enough to get him aroused.

          Claudia. Oh, to sink into those milk chocolate depths. The fact that he didn't know her well, that she was still very mysterious to him, only made her more capable of fitting into his fantasies. He had seen her fight to save his life just a few months before, and still remembered her game-face very well. He wasn't a connoisseur of such things, but he felt she had the best-looking demonic features he'd ever seen. He had more than enough experience to know that choosing a vampire lover might be a real option for him, and he had to consider things like what his mate would look like in her game-face. He certainly didn't see it as ugly in any way, just different. He liked the lion-like quality of vampiric faces, and felt that Claudia's showed more power and nobility than any he'd seen. So when he fantasized about being with a vampiress in full game-face—and discovering just how much of her body changed with the transformation—he always pictured Claudia.

          And there was Dawn. Now that was really sick. His former babysitter, someone who'd changed his diapers (of course, so had Cordy, so had Fred, maybe even Baby for that matter). Dawn was married now and in a city far away, but in his evil teenage boy memory she was clearly in front of him, that long long hair and attitude. She had always been such a strong personality, a never-say-quit strength that had been his bane when he was a kid but was now very attractive to him. Plus, she was a Slayer, and he wouldn't have to hold back any of this strength with her. She'd been just about his age when he was born, but now he could easily see himself pushing her against a wall, raining kisses down that long perfect neck, seeing that fire in her eyes as she tried to pull away but not being able to because he was strong as well, he was the man, he was the reason she was there, she wanted it, she wanted him, and her hand was jamming into his pants and wrapping around—

          Connor shook his head. Best not to go there. Especially with Drusilla back in the hotel. Things had grown strained between them in the last few years, and both of them knew why: nothing was scarier to a teenage boy than a woman who could see what was going on in his head. He turned red and left the room whenever she entered, because it was his natural instinct to imagine any beautiful woman who entered the room as naked for a moment—and he did this with Dru as well, and knew that she knew.

          At 4 A.M. he slipped on a shirt and exercise pants and went downstairs to the hotel kitchen, knowing he was not going to be able to sleep until the daylight returned and forced most of the happy humpers throughout the hotel to actually sleep. Knowing that others could sense his presence as well as he sensed theirs, he moved as stealthily through the hallways as he could, hoping he wouldn't interrupt anyone by passing their door. He was so quiet, in fact, that coming around a corner he saw a door open halfway down the hallway and was able to jump back and keep himself hidden, though with an eye on who else was moving around at this hour. And he was greeted with a sight straight from his fantasies: Faith, completely naked except for a gold chain around her waist, snuck from one room, crossed to another three doors down, knocked quietly and was given entrance. Only when that door closed did Connor allow himself to breathe once more. He closed his eyes and gave himself an instant replay of what he'd just witnessed. God. A woman in her mid-thirties should NOT look that good, but she was flawless. He smirked to himself as he went down that hall, then hit the scent-trail that Faith had left in her movement and he mindlessly traced it with his own steps, lost in the heady cocktail of her arousal, the man she'd just been with, and the spicy expectant aroma of the woman into whose room she'd just gone. Hmm, Claudia. Yet another fantasy image that he'd spend too much time imagining. And it increased Claudia's interest as a fantasy partner by twenty whole points.

          He finally reached the first floor and the kitchen's swinging doors. It was a benefit of being home that offset the liabilities: a 24-hour kitchen, with a variety of dishes that even his school's upper crust dining hall couldn't match. He was in the mood for a bagel with some lox and melted cheese. It didn't matter that it was so early—his metabolism allowed him to eat practically anything, and he was on such a rigorous schedule of training and sparring that he didn't have to worry about putting on weight. If anything, he was too skinny, a fact that Cordy nagged him about. And the irony of Miss Never-Too-Thin-Or-Too-Rich 2002 doing that was not lost on her.

          Connor was just past the first rank of steam tables when he sensed someone else in the kitchen. Specifically: a vampire, and an old one. One of his relatives must be up raiding the fridge, so he sauntered up to the big steel refrigerator to see who was there. The face that came around the fridge's door to greet his own was unexpected: Drusilla.

          He stared at her and she stared back. They hadn't been this close to each other in more than a year, as Connor had ensured. Coming under her intense scrutiny was his private nightmare. His eyes, unable to stay on the enormous power of her eyes, tried to extract other details around him. He saw that her hand was gripping the edge of the door, and around her wrist were lengthy, patterned purple bruises. The thought came unbidden to his head: Know how she got those, I know how she got those bruises.

          Drusilla's eyes squeezed near-shut with suspicion. "You know how I earned my bruises, eh?" she asked.

          In one second, Connor's worst fear was made real. She read me, oh God, she read me, now she knows what I'm thinking, she knows all those dirty things I've been considering, knows what I've thought about her, knows what I just saw with Faith, knows—

          Dru switched her hand from the fridge door to Connor's forehead. "Quiet," she ordered. "You need to sit down."

          The young man looked around the kitchen: the only stools were a good thirty feet away, by a large cutting table. "Where?" he asked.

          Drusilla grabbed his shirt, bunched it in her fist, and picked him up, setting him down on the countertop facing the refrigerator. Connor sat there quietly, watching her put back the bag of blood she'd come down to drink and then close the door. She was in a long crimson silk nightgown, sheer and lingering over every curve and delicious plane on her body. It was floor-length, like most of the dresses she wore, and so she appeared to float as she paced in front of Connor. In this costume, at this hour, in the weird blue fluorescent lights of the kitchen, she looked more like a movie vampire than he'd ever seen her, like one of the weird sisters from Dracula's castle, with her flowing hair and Victorian manner.

          "Do you know how angry I am with you?" she asked, her voice shattering the silence that had descended between them both.

          He put his head down, expecting her condemnation. "Yeah."

          She stopped in mid-stride. "No," she said. "Not about that. Do you think I care what a 14-year-old boy thinks about sex? You haven't even done it yet, so your images aren't very clear." She strode forward, an accusing finger pointing into his face. "You've shut yourself off from me. For years! That is what makes me angry."

          Connor stared at her. "But— But I thought . . . you'd be disgusted with me. With what I was thinking."

          Drusilla stared again, then brought her hand to her mouth in horror. "That's really it? You just thought—" Without warning, she hugged the young man to her. "Connor. You're my special boy. I love you. I could never do you harm."

          Connor hugged her back desperately, using it as a way to hold back his tears. "Even with what I've been thinking?"

          "I'll never look in your mind again, if that's what you want," she said, though his thoughts were flowing over her in waves and she was sifting through months of guilt and self-loathing. She heard the statement he'd made earlier that night and broke her hold on him to look him deeply in the eyes. "Connor, whatever you think: you are 'normal,' even if you don't see it around you. Every other boy goes through the same thing."

          Drusilla took a seat on the counter next to him, keeping her right arm across his shoulders. "And it's about more than sex, isn't it? It's about growing up, and then being considered a grown-up. About being a human among the undead. About being a warrior. About keeping your true self in hiding from everyone at your school." He didn't answer, but he gripped her as tightly as he could, with a strength that would do her damage if she were alive.

"Has there been no one you could talk about with this?"

          Connor slowly shook his head. "It's not the kind of thing I can discuss with my friends," he said. "They don't have a 'family' like I do. How am I supposed to tell 'em that a 'cousin' took a stake for me and died so that I wouldn't be kidnapped by a demon? Or that Baby looks better to me since she got turned, and that makes me wonder if I have a thing for undead girls? It's a whole different world."

          "And no girlfriend with whom you could . . . settle these feelings of yours?" Dru said through a smile.

          Connor chuckled at that. "Palmerston Academy does its best to keep us away from girls," he said. "But yeah, I see plenty of girls at clubs and malls. And can you imagine what'd happen when I bring one over here? She could get stepped on by some random demon charging through the lobby."

          "But, honey," Dru said. "You don't have to bring a girl here. Isn't there someone you would like to just . . . sleep with?"

          Connor was startled. "But I couldn't! Spike's told me again and again that I have to wait for true love." He paused, trying to make himself understood. "It's like this, Dru: I have to lie to everybody all the time, everybody I know in the daylight world. So it's almost like . . . they're not as REAL to me as my family members, 'cause I can be myself with you guys. When I get a girlfriend, I want her to know ME, not the mask I wear, and that pretty much rules out the normal girls I meet. If I had a girlfriend who only knew that fake side of me, I couldn't care for her much. And I'd REALLY hate myself if I slept with some girl I didn't care about!"

          Drusilla barked out laughter and playfully slapped at his arm. "Ohhhhh. You're such a good little boy, I wonder how you wound up in our family."

          Connor put his head down once more. "I'm not so good," he said. "You can hear that in my head, can't you? And I can barely think straight with all this sex going on around me."

          "I don't hear sex," Drusilla said.

          "What?! But I can hear it even down here!"
          "What I hear," Dru said, "is love. Men and women, the living and the undead: they're all drowning in feeling, Connor. I've known my share of sex without love, and what you see among your family isn't it. It may not be true love in all cases. And not many love each other like I do my sweet Wesley, or like he loves me. But this hotel is full of true caring for each other, my lovely boy. And that is all you have to wait for. Even if you have to bring in a girl from outside . . . she'll be greeted with love if you care for her."

          Connor looked at her silently for a minute before hugging Dru tightly, and she enthusiastically responded. It had been so very long since he'd allowed her close enough to hug him. He whispered to her, "I've missed you, Auntie Dru. You're the only one who never talks down to me."

          The vampiress chuckled. "And I never will." She pulled back and brushed the hair out of his face, looking fondly into his eyes. "Everything you're facing is what it means to grow up. I can't give you any great answer that will sum it all up for you. You won't find all the answers yourself. Now comes the time in your life when the general rules about life don't apply anymore: everything becomes specific. You become an individual, and you may find no answer among any of your family."

          "Oh, thanks. I wasn't apprehensive before, but now . . ."

          "Ha-ha! Trust me, you'll make a better man than you did a boy. And no one will call you Steven."

          Connor looked at her from the corner of his eye. Huh? Steven? He felt a wave of feeling overcome him, a pleasant disorientation he hadn't known he'd missed, a reminder that said: oh yeah, this is what it's like to talk to Drusilla. He chuckled and shook his head, happy to be in her presence once more.

Drusilla looked sideways at him as well, clearly wanting to say something but not sure if she should. So she came out with it: "You know, Connor, your family isn't the only group to live in the nighttime world."

          "Yeah, I know. And if a place like Caritas was still around, considering the stories you guys tell about it, I'd go. But I'm too human for the demon clubs around here. And at the human clubs . . ."

          "You're hiding."

          "Which is what I do twenty-four-seven, since I live at school," Connor said. "I feel like Clark Kent, like I have to be some dork who never gets the girl so I can save the world."

          Drusilla jumped off the countertop and stood, looking Connor in the eye. "You can go to a demon club if I escort you," she said. "No one would question your presence if I'm there."

          Connor blinked, half-smiling for a moment. Then he frowned again. "My dad would never allow that."

          "All the more reason not to ask him."

          Connor smirked at her. "Did I mention that you're my favorite aunt?"

          "I'm just glad that you are talking to me again."

          The young man blanched. "Yeah. Uh, I'm sorry, Auntie Dru. I should've trusted you more."

          "You've been so alone in this," she answered. "I'm sorry that I didn't force you to tell me how you were doing." Her head tipped to the side in a way very like Spike. "Hmm. I just remembered a nice Wiccan group I could introduce you to. They have some 14-year-old members. And you wouldn't have to hide your strength among them."

          Connor shrugged, and hopped off the countertop himself. "Whatever. Whoever they are, I'm sure you have my best interests at heart, right?"

          "Always, my lovely boy. Always."

TO BE CONCLUDED IN Age Fifteen